


Best Laid Plans

by Nervawkward



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:28:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23671612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nervawkward/pseuds/Nervawkward
Summary: The Witcher scowls, more furious and embarrassed in this moment than he`s been in his life, but any retort he might have had dies on his lips when The Bard takes his hand and, with the most delicate of bows, presses a kiss to Geralt`s bruised knuckles. "Until next time, Witcher."Geralt has exactlyzerointentions of caring about the kid, but Jaskier just can't make things easy. Trouble follows The Bard like the world's most malevolent shadow and now, apparently, so does Geralt.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 88
Kudos: 170





	1. Cacophony

**Author's Note:**

> I am losing my goddamn mind and using this as a distraction, ty for putting up with me.

"Ohhhhhh, oh-ho. Oh, this is good. This is perfect, just…" The Witcher glares, jerking at his restraints as the little shit before him actually _pulls his phone from his his pocket_ and begins taking pictures. "Hold it just like that, yeah? Well, I suppose you don`t really have a choice, seeing as how you`re tied up at the moment."

The Bard is clearly pleased with himself. "Did you like that? The `tied up` bit? Because you`re _literally_ -" He cuts himself off as he catches a glimpse of The Witcher`s thunderous expression, nodding to himself. "Right, yeah, of course. On to the rescuing."

Much to both Geralt`s relief and chagrin, The Bard makes quick work out of releasing his bindings, jumping daintily back when Geralt surges to his feet with a scowl. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

The Witcher had been surveilling this bunker for weeks before finally making his move, confident in his ability to overpower Stregebor and his men. What he _hadn`t_ been counting on, however, were the recently developed - and apparently deeply effective - power dampening restraints.

The Bard blinks at him with wide eyes, motions as if to say `is it not obvious`? "Clearly, I`m saving you. Or was that not what you wanted. Would like me to put the restraints back on? Because I can put them back on for you." He makes a little swiveling motion with his finger- _turn around_ \- and Geralt smacks his hand away, aggravated.

"Whatever. Just stay out of my way." Geralt shoulders past the brat, flares his nostrils in irritation at the sound of light footsteps hurrying behind him.

"Well obviously I`m not gonna do that." The Bard crouches down as Geralt ducks his head around the corner, checking for signs of activity. "Anything? It doesn`t sound like there`s anything, but what do _I_ know, _you`re_ the one with super senses."

The Witcher closes his eyes for a moment, just breathes. He will not kill this man. He hasn`t got time to deal with the media fallout. "Will you just _shut up_." He`s been humiliated enough being caught once, he will not allow it to happen again.

"Fine, alright, sorry. Just trying to contribute." The Bard shadows him with deft movements, makes nary a sound as they climb the stairs, and not for the first time, Geralt wonders just what the fuck his powers _are_.

"I _should_ tell you, though-"

"Enough." The Witcher turns back just long enough to glare, and is struck for the first time by how _young_ this kid looks. He`s got absolutely no intention of encouraging conversation, but he can`t help but mutter, "What are you anyway, twelve?"

The Bard snorts, blue eyes bright with mirth. "I am, actually. Skipped gym just to be here. Thought it might be more of an efficient workout."

Geralt turns away before the idiot can see him fighting a reluctant smile, pressing forward. The halls are almost oppressively quiet, whereas earlier they had been bustling with activity, and the silence sets him on edge. Whatever the cause it can`t mean anything good.

He reaches the ground floor corridor, bracing himself for a fight as he carefully places his hand on the door handle. Frustrated that he`s now got a kid to look after on top of everything else, he sighs. This is the exact reason why he works alone. By himself, all Geralt has to do is get the job done, no matter what the risk to himself may be. He can`t do that with some well intentioned, but ultimately helpless, hopeful trailing after him.

He turns the handle, steps into the room with a rush of adrenaline, and stops.

The lab is destroyed, completely and utterly wrecked. Tables overturned, metal instruments crumpled in on themselves, glass shattered. It looks as though a hurricane has been through, and the only indication that it hasn`t is the gaggle of various scientists and henchmen, each of them handcuffed and unconscious, propped up against the wall.

"I did try to tell you," If The Bard is attempting to sound sheepish, he`s failing utterly. Geralt whirls on him in surprise.

"This was _you_? Bullshit." No fucking way. The kid is maybe a buck thirty soaking wet, and that`s Geralt being generous.

The Bard shrugs, and though Geralt can only see his eyes for the mask that he wears, he can tell his expression is smug. "Believe what you want. Either way," He pulls one glove off to retrieve something from his pocket and slip it into Geralt`s hand. "There`s your flashdrive. I deleted everything else from the hard drive; they won`t be able to recover it."

He pats The Witcher on the shoulder consolingly. "Perhaps next time, Geralt."

And that, _that_ throws him for a loop. He steps right into The Bard`s space, fuming. "Do _not_ use my real name. How the fuck do you know it, anyway?"

"Are you… are you kidding? You`re not kidding." The Bard laughs, and Geralt uses every last bit of restraint in chosing not to strangle him then and there. "Rivia, you`re a billionaire socialite with _white hair and yellow eyes_! Who in their right mind _doesn`t_ know it`s you?"

"I`ve not seen it reported anywhere," he snarls. "If it`s so fucking obvious, why am I not swamped by fans and reporters everywhere I go?"

The kid has the nerve to throw his arms wide, incredulous. "Yeah, of course they aren`t going to call you out, you`re fucking _terrifying_. They`ve seen you crack a man`s head open with a fucking _sword_ , Geralt! Really. Had I known your level of basic human understanding to be so lacking, I would have stepped in _much_ sooner."

Geralt raises a brow, already beginning to feel less angry and more exhausted. Maybe a little intrigued. "You`re not afraid of me." That much is obvious.

Even with the mask, it`s clear The Bard is smiling, blue eyes warm. "Maybe I`ve got a thing for the strong, silent, murdery type." He leans in close, voice just slightly muffled as he whispers in Geralt`s ear, "Or maybe I know it was you who saved Mrs. Gorsham`s cat from that house fire."

Geralt balks, growling and ready to deny it even as feels his face flush, but The Bard continues, " _And_ her kittens."

The Witcher scowls, more furious and embarrassed in this moment than he`s been in his _life_ , but any retort he might have had dies on his lips when The Bard takes his hand and, with the most delicate of bows, presses a kiss to Geralt`s bruised knuckles. "Until next time, Witcher."

He steps lightly back, a smile in his eyes, and suddenly the world is vibrating at such a destructive frequency that even Geralt drops to his knees, hands clamped over his ears in an attempt to block out the deafening roar.

When it finally stops, he rises slowly to his feet, swaying, and The Bard is gone.

"What," Geralt wonders aloud, " _the fuck_."


	2. Gyarados

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not for the first time in his life, Geralt finds himself wondering what terrible offense he must have committed to deserve this. He`s a decent guy, or at least he tries to be. Pays his taxes, sends his kid to the best school. Occasionally brutally murders someone, yes, but _only_ when they deserve it

Not for the first time in his life, Geralt finds himself wondering what terrible offense he must have committed to deserve this. He`s a decent guy, or at least he tries to be. Pays his taxes, sends his kid to the best school. Occasionally brutally murders someone, yes, but _only_ when they deserve it. If there`s any such thing as karmic justice, as his daughter so insists, then Geralt absolutely can`t understand how he`s offended the universe deeply enough to deserve _this_.

"So I`ve decided we should work together," announces the current manifestation of Geralt`s earthly retribution. The Bard drops lightly beside him, swinging his legs over the side of the building and kicking them lazily.

Geralt sighs. "Have you." 

"I have." He nods, pulls a granola bar out of nowhere and offers it to The Witcher, unfazed when it only earns him a glare. "Don`t like raisins? I don`t really go in for them either, to be honest, but you know. Fiber."

Geralt wonders if the kid`s powers would enable him to survive a fall from a great height. "What do you want, Bard."

"Alright, so, I`ve been thinking this through. You: dark, gloomy, ruggedly handsome man of mystery with a past. _Me_ : light, charming, decidedly less rugged - but arguably just as handsome -newcomer with a _mysterious_ past?" He throws his hands out as if to say _it`s obvious_. "Different yet equally efficient methods of crime fighting, backed by similar morals? What`ve you got to lose?"

"My life. Your life." Geralt arches a brow, waits for the inevitable retort.

"Well, alright, that`s fair, you don`t know me well enough to trust me just yet. But I _have_ proven I`m more than capable of taking care of myself, if that`s what you`re really worried about."

"Hm. It`s not." He snatches up the granola bar and shoves about half of into his mouth, figures if it`s poisoned now`s as good a time to go as any. He`s seen enough of The Bard`s work by now to know the kid tends to be effective, if overly zealous. Geralt knows potential when he sees it. "That stunt at the lab. Was that you auditioning?"

The Bard tucks his legs up beneath him gracefully, but The Witcher hears him sing-song _criss cross applesauce_ under his breath. "Not intentionally, no. But if you were impressed then yes, it absolutely was."

Geralt snorts. He`ll give him one thing: it`s without a doubt the most entertained he`s been all night. While he`s got exactly zero plans of ever partnering up - three other brothers-in-arms, a mentor and an over-powered ex is more than enough - The Witcher figures there`s no harm in humoring him. At the very least it`ll pass the time. "What`s your sales pitch, then?"

Though his face is still covered The Bard visibly brightens, enthusiasm obvious in his posture. "We watch each other`s backs. I step up where you might be… wanting, and vice-versa. I excel at gathering information and infiltration, both of which you`re just _atrocious_ at-" He holds up a warning finger before Geralt can object. "You know you are, Mr. Broody McJusticepants, and I`ll not hear otherwise. I`m _extremely_ driven, I`ve got _very_ promising powers and - you`ll love this bit - _you_ can help me learn to control them."

"The alternative to that last part being?"

"Occasional large-scale destruction is the, um. Usual result of my better efforts." At that, he actually looks to be slightly embarrassed, and Geralt has to admit he appreciates the honesty.

He sighs. "Tell me what your powers are, I`ll tell you if I can help." The absolute last thing he needs is unintended, benevolent chaos following him around everywhere he goes. And yes, alright, he`s never been overly fond of the idea of leaving a fellow mutant to fend for themselves if he can help it. He blames Vesemir for that particular shortcoming.

The Bard scrunches up his nose almost apologetically, as though he`s afraid to say. "Soundwave manipulation, near as I can tell?"

Ah, fuck. Geralt thinks of the state of the lab, how it`d been nearly demolished, and wonders how much of that had been intentional. It`s a lot of power for someone who lacks training to wield. He should know - his daughter`s own powers are of a similar vein.

He swipes a hand over his face, groans in frustration. In obligation. He fucking hates anyone who had ever contributed to his sense of morality, even in the slightest. "What`s your name?"

The Bard blinks, surprised. "You`ll help me?"

"I`ll help _you_." The Witcher confirms. "You will not help me. No partnership, no missions. Just training. That`s my only offer, take it or leave it."

"Take it." The Bard shoves out his hand, immediately retracts it to pull back his mask, then offers it once more. "Jaskier."

Geralt takes one look at him, and knows he`s at least a little bit fucked. The Bard- _Jaskier_ \- has to be somewhere in his twenties. Messy dark hair, blue eyes somehow brighter without the mask. When he smiles at Geralt it`s the genuine article, not poorly disguised fear or even more poorly disguised kiss-assery.

Fuck.

"Geralt. But you knew that."

Jaskier beams. "Despite your _very_ convincing, identity concealing eye mask and hood, yes. I did." He narrows his eyes, tilts his head contemplatively. "Have you ever thought about new armour? Not that yours isn`t, well, fetching, but-"

"Alright, enough." Geralt regrets his decision already. "Give me your phone."

The Bard doesn`t even try to hide a smile as he digs around his pocket. "A little bit forward, but I like a man who knows what he wants." He winks as he hands the phone over, and Geralt screams internally.

Furious with himself, still not completely sure why he`s doing it, Geralt enters his contact info. Tells himself it`s still one thousand percent about the training and not at all to do with the way Jaskier is currently leaning into his space, unintimidated and content. "Meet me here Friday. Early, if possible."

Jaskier winces. "I don`t suppose you`d have any interest in working around a work schedule?" And then, when he sees Geralt`s thunderous expression. "Okay, too much, duly noted. Doesn`t matter. Never liked the job anyway."

" _Friday_ " Geralt reiterates, tone harsh.

"Friday it is."

~

Friday comes and goes. Jaskier never appears. A whole weekend passes without a word from The Bard, and Geralt curses himself for even making the effort to clear his schedule at all.

~

By the time Monday rolls around Geralt is already considering their arrangement to be null and void, so he`s irritated when Jaskier`s name flashes on his phone. He declines with a scowl, then declines once more when it rings again. By the third time his phone buzzes he`s ready to answer with some less than kind words, but it`s only a text. Geralt shakes his head, tells himself to delete it even as he taps Jaskier`s name on the screen.

It`s a picture. An exhausted looking Jaskier standing in front of the gates that surround his home, holding up a halfhearted peace sign with a hand wrapped tightly in bandages. His face is a mess of fading bruises and healing cuts, and Geralt bites out a low curse. Finds himself headed toward the control panel and opening the front gates despite himself.

A questioning nudge at his hand, and Geralt turns a disapproving scowl to the mutt by his side. "Don`t judge me. You were a stray once." Roach seems to accept this answer for what it is, and takes off running at the sound of a knock and a door being opened.

"Hey Geralt!" Lambert, so, so loud, as always. "You got a roughed-up twink here for you!"

" _Excuse me_ , I will have you know that I graduated from twinkhood with honors _years_ ago." Geralt rounds the corner to find Jaskier pointedly unzipping his hoodie, indicating the hint of plentiful chest hair with a grand gesture. It`s meant to be playful, he knows, but the action only serves to draw Geralt`s attention to the dark bruises marring his throat. 

The Witcher swallows back an unexpected surge of anger, sees Lambert`s posture go ramrod-straight as he zeroes in on the marks as well. He knows of The Bard, has run into him nearly as many times as Geralt, and they don`t take kindly to those scant few on their side coming to harm.

"Ah, yeah." Jaskier zips up his hoodie with a wry smile, clearly uncomfortable under their scrutiny. "Not my most successful work."

Lambert eyes his shoddy bandages. "You even go to the hospital?"

"Of course, that`s what every crime fighter attempting to conceal his identity does when he publicly has the shit beaten out- _no_ , _obviously_ I haven`t, Witcher. You don`t, when you`re injured."

Geralt sighs. " _We_ have accelerated healing. A private doctor on call for when even that isn`t enough. What do you have?"

Jaskier blinks. "A first aid kit I found under my sink when I moved in?"

"Come on." Geralt waves him forward, wraps a supportive hand round the kid`s bicep when he stumbles slightly on their way to the elevator. He clenches his jaw. "Why didn`t you call earlier? We would have come for you."

The Bard levels him with a look that he can`t quite read, something vulnerable in those blue eyes. He looks away as the elevator dings, staring down at the tiles. "Took me a while to get out. It`s fine. I was fine."

"Clearly." And there it is. The need to protect he can no longer deny. Fuck.

Hand still hovering around Jaskier`s elbow, he leads him out as the doors open and over to the exam table. Gets him seated, steadies him when he begins to list slowly forward before thinking the better of it and having him lie down completely. "Mel. Call Triss down to the basement."

At Mel`s pleasant "Yes, Geralt" humming through the speaker, Jaskier`s eyes go wide. "You have a fucking _A.I._? Jesus, you _posh_ motherfucker. I have Alexa, you know. On my phone. Like a normal person."

"Trust me, none of this shit was my choice." Not that he`s complaining. Especially not with Jaskier sat before him covered in more than likely expired plasters, wearing worn down clothes that had to have seen their best days years ago. "Triss will be down in a minute. Will you be good to change or are you going to fall over?"

Jaskier`s expression sobers, darkens just a bit. "I didn`t come here for medical treatment, Witcher. I`m fine, you don`t need to feel obligated-" But Geralt cuts that shit _right_ off.

"One." He holds up a single finger. "You`re not fine. Two," He holds up a different finger meaningfully, tries not to smile when Jaskier laughs. "I never feel obligated to do anything. So shut up and take your clothes off." 

He waits for the inevitable sass, but Jaskier only smiles at him warmly. "Thank you."

"Shut up," Geralt grunts. He pulls the privacy screen back before Jaskier can see his face flush. Fucking… blue-eyed do-gooder. He heads for the other room the moment Triss arrives, leaving them to it.

~

"Well, it`s definitely a concussion, though very minor. Sprained wrist, minor cuts and contusions. Nothing too major, but nothing that`s going to be feeling great any time soon, either." Triss sighs, falls back into the chair across from Geralt. "He`s sweet. Flirty."

Geralt just arches an eyebrow at that because fuck, he knows. "You offer him a spare room?"

"I haven`t, no- I`ve got to get back to Ciri`s lessons. But _you_ can." She pats him on the shoulder encouragingly, offers him a winning smile. "Get in there, big guy. Take care of your boy."

Geralt`s got nothing to say to that, so he just grunts. But he does get in there. 

Jaskier is slumped down in a rolling chair, chin on his chest as he stares down at his phone. "You have _so_ many pokemon here, how is that even possible? Do you know I caught a shiny Gyarados, Geralt? A shiny Gyarados. I`ve been walking around catching Magikarp like some kind of idiot, like some kind of _moron_ , and here you are with a shiny fucking Gyarados just _sat_ there."

"I don`t know what that means, but I`m begging you not to explain it to me." He leans against the wall, crosses his arms over his chest and attempts to engage in casual human conversation. "You can stay here. Until you`re feeling better, that is. We`ve got more guest rooms than we know what to do wth."

Jaskier bites his lip, pauses just a moment before switching his phone off and slipping it into his pocket. "That`s very sweet of you, but no. I`ve got work in a few hours, and it isn`t anywhere close to here."

"You`re not going to work with a concussion." Geralt frowns. "Surely they`ll understand you`re in no condition."

Jaskier snorts, shakes his head in fond disbelief. He makes a gesture that Geralt supposes is meant to encompass the whole of their surroundings. "No offense, Geralt, but I don`t really think you`ve a proper understanding of what is and is not acceptable working condition. They don`t care, and I need to eat, so."

Geralt stops him with a hand on his shoulder as Jaskier stands, but The Bard only glances down before meeting his eyes with a clear challenge. "Am I a hostage here, Geralt?"

"Of course not." He snatches his hand away, stung. Why can he never just make things _easy_? "I just don`t want you to regret going back out there so soon."

"I`ll be fine." Jaskier smiles, genuine. Maybe just a hint of sadness about the edges, and it tugs uncomfortably at something in Geralt`s chest. "Don`t suppose you`re still up for training this weekend? So long as I don`t go disappearing again?"

Geralt nods, tries to tell himself he`s not reluctant to let Jaskier out of his sight. "If _anything_ happens-"

"I`ll call you." He steps into Geralt`s space, stretches up just slightly to press the softest of kisses to his cheek. "Thank you. Really."

"Uh." It takes The Witcher a moment to school himself. He nods, does the only thing his body can think of and reaches out to give Jaskier`s hand a firm shake. "Don`t worry about it."

Jaskier grins at him like he`s the most adorable thing he`s ever seen, and Geralt glances away, frowning. He`s not adorable. He`s the darkness. "I`ll see you next time, Geralt."

"Yeah, okay. Next time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don`t know, you guys.


	3. Revelations

" _How_ in the _hell_ did you end up on this side of town, is what I want to know." The Witcher hears the voice through several layers of fuzz, does his best to keep his legs moving and cooperate with the body supporting him. He stumbles down stairs, assaulted by the overwhelming competing scents of a multitude of dinners being cooked all at once.

He feels himself being propped up against a wall, hears cursing and the sound of keys before he`s being unceremoniously dragged forward and plopped onto a mattress. He groans as the movement aggravates the wounds in his side, sends fire shooting down his leg.

"Shit, fuck, I`m sorry." Light touches, hovering over him. "What do you need me to do?" It`s Jaskier, voice tight with worry.

Geralt motions to his side, accidentally brushes his hand against the protruding shrapnel and hisses. "Gotta take it out. Can't heal."

More colorful cursing then, interspersed with what Geralt can only guess to be Polish? "Are you _absolutely certain_ you don't want me to call literally _anyone_ else? Like in the whole of the universe."

"Fuck, just pull it out. Please." Geralt needs the foreign object gone before his body can do what it needs to do. He's not sure how much longer he can stay conscious like this.

"Okay, okay, okay." A long, shuddering breath, a gentle touch that sends pain crashing through his torso. A poorly restrained gagging noise, and Geralt lets his eyes fly open just long enough to glare warningly at The Bard. "Fuck, I`m sorry! Your insides are fucking _looking at me_ , Geralt!"

The Witcher snarls, opens his mouth to retort just as the shrapnel is yanked from his side. Darkness crowds at the edge of his vision, and he lets it take him.

~

Geralt wakes feeling sore but whole, laid out on what is possibly the most uncomfortable mattress he's ever felt in his life. He`d been divested of his armor at some point, and a glance under the covers tells him his injuries have been wrapped tightly in gauze.

"Oh, thank god you`re awake, I thought maybe I killed you." Jaskier exhales shakily beside him, releases a nervous laugh from where he’s seated on the floor. "I mean, I watched you heal, _of course_ , but then you were _impossible_ to wake, and it - to be honest, Geralt, it really gave me the heebie jeebies, seeing you like that - and it's been _hours_ , and-"

"Jaskier, enough. I`m fine." Geralt pulls himself to sitting with a groan, eases slowly back until he`s leaned against the wall. "This is your place? It's… nice."

It's one of the shittiest places he's ever seen. A small studio apartment with a sad kitchenette, nicotine stained walls that haven’t seen a decent coat of paint in decades. Crumbling plaster and cracks that Jaskier has apparently attempted to liven up with little sketches of vines and flowers. The mattress Geralt rests upon is sat on a box spring and nothing more, and the only other furniture he sees is clearly secondhand.

"It`s a shit hole, but I appreciate the lie." The Bard smiles at him, a strange half-grin that's very nearly shy. It makes something flutter pleasantly in Geralt's gut, and he fights to push the feeling down.

"So why live here." Geralt pauses, considers the inner voice that sounds a whole lot like Ciri telling him _you can't talk to people like that_.

"If, uh. You don't mind me asking," he amends.

Jaskier only shrugs, and Geralt finds himself fixated on the graceful slope of his shoulder. "Broke college student, aspiring hero and so on and so forth. Doesn't really bother me. I tend to sleep elsewhere more often than not."

Jaskier grins, truly, and Geralt hates the warming effect it has in his chest. "Get it, Witcher? It's because I'm usually sleeping in someone _else`s_ bed, is what I'm saying."

"Yeah, I got it," Geralt intones flatly. Not for the first time with Jaskier, he finds himself at a loss. He enjoys the kid`s company despite himself, but he's so, so much even when Geralt`s feeling a hundred percent. A part of him wants to stay and be entertained, let Jaskier keep talking until his heart`s content. But that's a dangerous road to travel, and Geralt`s already taken enough ill-advised routes to last him a lifetime.

He swallows, makes up his mind. "I don't know how to have a conversation with you. So I`m going to go now."

"You know, you would be _surprised_ how often I get that? Me, an exquisite conversationalist. A charming- hey, you`re not _actually_ leaving, are you? Geralt, you were a fucking kebab not three hours ago." 

Jaskier scrambles to his feet just as Geralt begins to search through the clothes he finds folded into neat piles, every item too tight or too flashy for comfort. The Bard places a long-fingered hand on his forearm, gentle like he's afraid to spook him. "Geralt?"

Geralt resolutely ignores the touch burning through his skin, tries to convince himself that it doesn't affect him at all. "Don`t you have gym clothes? Sweats, anything a normal person might wear." There's so much button up _floral_. So many shorts and trousers in varying pastels.

"This, coming from the man who wears only shades of black and gray." Jaskier retracts his hand and crosses his arms, actually manages to look mildly offended, "I mean, I`m into it, obviously I`m into it, but still. Rude."

Geralt takes a deep breath, pauses just long enough to level the kid with a look. "Can you not complete a single sentence without coming on to someone?"

"Not when I like them, no." Jaskier raises his chin as though he's been challenged, squares off his posture. Geralt tries not to follow the line of his jaw, the delicate stretch of his throat. He keeps his gaze _right the fuck away_ from that cupid`s bow mouth even as it asks, "Would you like me to stop, Witcher?"

_No_. "Yes," Geralt bites out. "I would."

Jaskier narrows dangerously blue eyes, clearly reading something in Geralt's expression that speaks to the opposite of his words. "Are you sure? Because I`ll let it go if that's really what you`d like, but-"

Geralt`s got him shoved up against the wall before he knows it, his face inches from The Bard`s. He lets his gaze flick down to Jaskier`s lips, can tell by the way the other man's pupils immediately dilate that he`s noticed. 

"I need you to stop talking."

He can't do this. It`d be one thing if he were only looking for a fling - hell, even he and _Yennefer_ still sleep together when the mood strikes - but he`s finding that he truly _likes_ Jaskier, actually enjoys his company. Geralt feels _something_ for the kid, and he can`t allow himself to follow through because there's no way this ends in any way but heartbreak. Fuck, in their profession there`s no way it doesn`t end, period.

"I can stop talking," Jaskier grins, surprisingly amenable, and Geralt understands with a reluctant thrill that he`s willfully chosen to misinterpret him. "I can definitely stop talking."

And _fuck_ , _shit_ , there`s only so much he can resist. Geralt pushes right back when Jaskier surges up to meet him, all clashing teeth and bruising lips, far rougher than he`d imagined it - and yes, okay, he`s imagined it. He grabs The Bard`s wrists and pins them to the wall with every intention of halting things before they can get too far, but the action only elicits a rough " _Fuck_ from the other man, and Geralt is lost.

It's a terrible idea. It`s a terrible idea and he`s so fucking _stupid_ , furious with himself even as he releases Jaskier`s wrists to drag his hands down his sides and wrap them around slender hips. Geralt lifts him as though he weighs nothing - because to The Witcher, he doesn't - his whole world narrowing to every point of contact between them as Jaskier brackets long legs around Geralt`s waist.

"We shouldn't be doing this." He bites into the hollow of Jaskier`s throat, slams his eyes shut at the fucking _sounds_ that he makes.

"Probably," Jaskier laughs, breathy, and his smile is a bright and precious thing. Geralt wants to tell him that people don't smile like that, that it isn't safe to let yourself be so open and vulnerable, but he finds he's smiling in return. "But here we are."

" _Fuck_ , you fucking- " Geralt`s got no particular coherent sentence in mind as he sets Jaskier down on the tiny kitchen counter, relenting only in his barrage when the other man pulls back to clumsily remove his shirt. He's all pale skin and dark chest hair, tightly corded muscle and sharp hip bones. There`s just the _dumbest_ fucking tattoo of Pepe Le Pew etched along his ribs, and Geralt has to break away in order to outright laugh. "Really?"

Jaskier makes a halfhearted attempt to look offended, but his mouth is curling up at the corners. "I was young and drunk, Geralt, don`t _at_ me."

Geralt huffs a laugh, but before he can even ask what in the hell _that_ means, he sees them. Faded and dotted along the insides of Jaskier`s arms, entire clusters concentrated at the thick veins in the crook of his elbows. Tiny nicks and imperfections shiny with scar tissue. The sight hits Geralt with all the subtlety and pain of a fucking brick, and all at once he`s solemn.

"Jaskier…"

Jaskier, for his part, just blinks at him in utter bewilderment before following Geralt`s gaze down to his arms. His entire face falls, anguished, and he pulls back from The Witcher to search for his shirt, avoiding eye contact like he’s going for gold. 

"Of fucking _course_ you`d see them." He pulls his shirt back on with haste, stretching the ends of the sleeves over his hands like he can render them invisible. "They`re not track marks. Not the way that you think."

"What way do I think?" Geralt attempts to collect himself, still reeling from this one-eighty of a mood shift, this trainwreck of new information.

"I`m not a fucking junkie, Geralt. I don't need you to- to look at me like that." Jaskier clenches his jaw, clearly going for angry and only achieving desperately uncomfortable and sad. He looks away. "This was a bad idea."

For all that he`d been internally protesting at the start, Geralt is stung. He hadn't _meant_ for things to come screeching to a halt, but the sight of the old scars had jarred him. "Jaskier…"

"You should go. Actually, _I_ have to go." He hops down off the counter, makes a truly pained sound in the back of his throat when Geralt doesn't immediately move. He blinks rapidly as he pushes The Witcher gently out of his path, hurrying to snatch his keys from the table.

"Take whatever clothes fit. Just lock up when you go."

He's gone before Geralt can even process what's happened. 

~

Geralt tries, but Jaskier won't answer his calls or even open his texts. He doesn't show up that weekend for training, and he even seems to have gone quiet on the crime front. Geralt has no idea what the fuck he`s done, what the fuck to _do_ , so he does what comes most naturally and shuts himself down.

It was a mistake. It was always going to be a mistake.

~

"Sooo…" Geralt barely glances up as Eskel slides into the seat across the table. "Things are going well with you, I take it? Just judging from the overall level of brooding."

"I`m not brooding," Geralt snaps, because he fucking _isn`t_.

Eskel throws his hands up in defeat. "Well you`ve convinced _me_. I`m sorry I ever thought otherwise."

Geralt sighs, halts his typing in favor of sending a tired glare. He's fine. He's never had feelings ever in his life, and even if he had, he will never have feelings again. He isn't worried about anyone. He doesn't miss the constant, inane chatter of the very same person he isn't worried about. He _absolutely_ hasn`t put feelers out just to be sure a certain blue-eyed man with dumb, floppy hair hasn`t been making terrible decisions in sketchy alleyways. "Can we not do this right now?"

"I mean, I could let you get back to work, but then what kind of-" 

"Adopted," Geralt interjects, and Eskel continues unphased, "-older brother would I be? Seriously, Geralt. You haven't been this next-level bitchy since your fight with The Selkimore. What`s up?"

"For one: neither of us know our real age, so for all you know I could be older. For two: mind your own fucking business and go bother Lambert and Coen." He refreshes the web page just to be absolutely certain his Google alert for `The Bard` still comes up blank. Not a single feeling involved.

"Is it that mouthy kid?" Geralt's head shoots up at that, because he hadn't realized Eskel knew about Jaskier at all. The other Witcher gives him an understanding smile, and the scars along the side of his face pull at his lips just slightly. "He's been walking back and forth outside the gates for about ten minutes now. Mel sent out the alert, but I guess you`ve been busy." 

Geralt freezes, torn between his desire to see Jaskier and his sense of self preservation screaming at him to run far in the opposite direction. He shrugs, and it feels forced even to him. "So?"

"`So`," Eskel parrots, "I buzzed him in. He should be at the doors by now."

As if on cue, Mel announces the arrival of a visitor. 

Eskel grins, smug. "I know you want me to be sorry, but I very much am not. Dick." He reaches out for Geralt`s coffee and slides it toward himself, clearly pleased. "I`ll just take this off your hands while you go talk."

~

It's possibly the most uncomfortable silence Geralt`s ever been privy to. He waits as Jaskier fiddles with his shirt. Waits as The Bard paces, takes a seat and immediately rises to pace some more. Geralt waits, because he`s got no clue what the fuck he should say. Luckily, he doesn't have to wait very long.

"So," Jaskier begins, and it's like the breath`s been punched out of him. "cards on the table. Am I absolutely littered with needle marks? Yes. Have foreign substances been forced into my body for years upon years upon years as far back as I can remember? Also yes. Has it ever, _ever_ been by choice or with my consent? That would be a _resounding_ no."

"Jaskier, what the fuck are you saying?" Geralt stands, horrified, but Jaskier only shakes his head, his eyes pleading.

"What I'm trying to tell you, Geralt…" Jaskier heaves a breath, looks for all the world as though he's ready to take off running at the slightest wrong move. "I`m trying to tell you that my father is The Earl."

And, oh- _oh_ , it makes sense. The track marks, Jaskier`s lack of control over his powers despite his age. His reluctance to tell Geralt any of it. The Witcher swallows. "The Earl as in…"

“The evil, murderous bigot, yes.”

The one who'd been world-renowned among hate groups for his Anti-Mutant movements and discriminatory laws. The one who`d eventually been exposed for conducting cruel and inhumane research on mutants in an effort to cure them of their "condition". The one who, unbeknownst to all, had been father to a mutant son all along.

The one who's currently serving a life sentence in a maximum security prison, courtesy of The Witcher himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all please let me know if you think this is worth continuing I am dead and dying thnx


	4. Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the words of encouragement, y'all!!! This is unbeta'd as hell!

“I used to hate you, you know. When I was younger.”

It’s the last thing Geralt expects to hear with his head pillowed in Jaskier’s lap, long fingers trailing gently through his hair. He watches the line of Jaskier’s stubbled jaw as it works in mild frustration. “Is that so.”

Jaskier nods, expression solemn, but his eyes are soft when gazes down at The Witcher. “Not because you put my dad away, although admittedly that didn’t help. You were just… fucking everywhere, you know, even before then. On the news, in the papers. Never hiding your powers from anyone. I hated that.”

He waits, silent, as The Bard seems to be gathering himself. They’ve been sat in Geralt’s quarters for a few hours now, attempting to steal away a moment of peace after a rather impromptu interrogation. Unsurprisingly, Jaskier’s confession had not gone unheard in a house full of Witchers, and Vesemir had acted accordingly with immediate questioning. With all the damage The Earl has done- as well as his own involvement in the bastard’s downfall- Geralt understands the need to verify their safety, but he can’t help but feel guilty about Jaskier’s obvious emotional exhaustion.

“I mean, I don’t want to brag, Geralt, but I was just _unbelievably_ fucked up as a kid.” Jaskier huffs a quiet laugh, but it’s decidedly humorless. “I _hated_ being a mutant, more than anything, and then there you were, just. Out there. Like it wasn’t something to be ashamed of. It made me so _fucking_ angry, for the longest time.”

The Witcher feels a surge of protective rage at the declaration, decides this isn’t a conversation he wants to have lying down. He disentangles Jaskier’s hand from his hair, pushing himself up until they’re leaning against the headboard shoulder to shoulder. “Your father?”

Jaskier nods, suddenly intent on picking invisible lint from the blankets. “I couldn’t understand why you’d _want_ people to know, when- when I’d been trying so hard to hide what I was. And the fact that people worshipped you for it? Fuck, Geralt, to see the way the world treated you when my own parents… My mom couldn’t even look at me, you know? At least my dad tried to _fix_ me. She just. Blamed herself for the way that I was.”

“She sounds like a treasure.”

“Yeah.” Jaskier snorts, obviously grateful for the moment of levity. “That’s Agnieszka for you. I’m sure this must come as a surprise, but green card marriages resulting in what essentially amounts to a _massive_ birth defect don’t exactly make for the happiest of trophy wives.”

“I remember her.” 

She’d been present for the entirety of the trials, fierce and polished and cold. Geralt can see a lot of her features in Jaskier, now that he thinks of it - the same dark hair, eyes not quite the same startling shade of blue, but close. She’d defended her husband’s actions right up until his conviction, and then vanished without so much as a trace. Jaskier had been a minor at the time, his name and information redacted in an effort to protect him from the public circus. Geralt hadn’t even known they’d been conducting experiments on _him_ as well until Jaskier himself informed him.

“What made you change your mind? About, um. Hating me.” Geralt clenches his jaw, annoyed with the actual words he’d almost let slip - what had changed Jaskier’s mind about hating _himself_ \- but the message seems to land anyway.

He’s met with a wry smile, something soft around the edges that makes his stomach flip just so. “My babcia. She was granted custody of me after they took me away. Grandmother, that means grandmother. You know you get these little wrinkles in your forehead when you’re confused? It’s cute.”

“Shut up.” Geralt makes his best effort to look disapproving, which he is, because of all the things in the world, he is definitely not _cute_. “Is that where you went, then? Poland?”

“Yup.” Jaskier pops the “p”. He makes what Ciri refers to as _grabby hands_ until Geralt relents and presents his own hand with a put-upon sigh. Jaskier latches on, and Geralt realizes this is probably the first time someone other than his family has been so thoughtlessly tactile with him. Jaskier’s been fearless with him from the very start.

“What made you come back?” Geralt wouldn’t have. He remembers very little of his childhood home, but he’s got exactly zero interest in revisiting that particular wormhole of absolute fuckery.

“She died.” Jaskier shrugs, nonchalant, but Geralt can _see_ the pain in his the way his eyes cloud over. “I had no reason to stay, so I left. Changed my name, enrolled in Uni, became a dashingly handsome and extremely capable crime fighter and overall keeper of justice. And then I met you.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

Geralt squeezes his hand in response, arches a questioning eyebrow. “Changed your name?”

The Bard smiles at him, and it’s so fucking soft that Geralt finds he has to look away. “My babcia called me Jaskier. Don’t look it up. I’ll know if you look it up.” He sighs dramatically, gazes wistfully into mid-distance. “And then I’d have to kill you. Tragically. Before we’d even gotten the chance to fuck. You might even become a ghost, Geralt - unfinished business and all that.”

Jaskier tilts his head consideringly, narrows his eyes in thought. “Would I fuck a ghost?”

“You would absolutely fuck a ghost.” Geralt is suddenly exhausted. When had he begun participating in such inane conversations?

The answer to that question grins, blue eyes bright with mirth. “I’d fuck _your_ ghost.”

“Was that you flirting?” Geralt levels him with a flat look. “It was bad. You’re bad at it.”

Still, he allows it when Jaskier laughs and pulls him in by the front of his shirt. The kiss is softer than their frenzied rush back at the apartment, sweeter, and Geralt is surprised to find that he likes it better this way. People don’t tend to take the time to be gentle with him, and it’s… _nice_ , being touched like this.

“Just to be clear,” Jaskier raises his hand to rest it along Geralt’s jaw, kisses him again before continuing, “this is all we’re doing. I’m not opposed to an audience, but I don’t exactly _love_ the idea of a house full of Witchers listening in? Well, I mean, a part of me does. A lot of me does. But not right now. Unless…?”

“Jaskier, shut the fuck up. I’m begging you.” The last thing he wants to be thinking about is his fucking family. 

He pulls the idiot back in before he can continue, smiling as Jaskier laughs into the kiss. Something in Geralt’s chest twists painfully at the sound, but he finds he doesn’t mind the feeling. He doesn’t understand how Jaskier has managed to wedge himself into his life so completely in such a short amount of time, but here they are.

He’s not sure why he’s surprised when Jaskier’s suddenly levering himself into his lap, tilting Geralt’s chin so he can descend upon him with all the fervor of a predator descending upon prey. Fingers in his hair, his own hands settled firmly around Jaskier’s slender waist, Geralt is not opposed to the unexpected role reversal. As a matter of fact he’s thoroughly enjoying it, so it’s with a very manly and not at all pathetic groan that he feels Jaskier pull back at the sound of an alarm.

“Fuck.” Jaskier swears with feeling, falling dramatically back onto the bed to dig around for his phone. He switches off the alarm, actually _pouting_ , and Geralt does _not_ find it endearing. “Apologies, darling, but that is my cue to go.”

“Work?”

“New job.” Jaskier springs up with that seemingly boundless energy. “As it so happens, you may have been just a _little_ bit completely correct about me going back to work with a concussion. Turns out people don’t love it when you continually fuck up their orders and then proceed to vomit on their serving tray.”

Jesus god, this kid. “What’s the new job?”

Jaskier smiles and winks conspiratorially. “Top secret, that. Regrettably I cannot tell you, as then-”

“You’d have to kill me and fuck my ghost,” Geralt finishes. “You’re an idiot.” 

Jaskier only laughs.

***

Jaskier frowns as he takes in the dilapidated building towering before him, covered in graffiti and surrounded by broken glass. It’s not exactly the kind of place _he_ would have chosen to meet up with a potential employee, but then again it makes sense - considering the less than legal nature of this transaction.

“You Dandelion?” 

“Jesus _fucking _Christ!” Jaskier nearly jumps out of his skin as the man steps out of the shadows and into his space. Big and broad, expression threateningly impassive, and Jaskier is _so_ glad he decided not to use his real name. “Ah, yes, yep. That’s me. Dandelion.”__

____

____

The man looks him up and down, appraising. “You got any weapons on you?”

Jaskier splays his hands wide, the universal sign for _I come in peace_. “No weapons. Just my incredibly sharp wit. If you’d. Consider that a weapon.”

The man takes an aggressive step toward him, sneering. “You really want to have said that just now? This is serious shit, smartass.” 

“You are absolutely correct.” Jaskier does his best to fight the manic grin he can feel trying to take over his face. The fact that he tends to smile and laugh when he’s nervous or afraid has literally _never_ worked out in his favor. “Consider me properly chastised.” 

He gestures to the door, attempting to look convincingly apologetic. “Shall we?” 

After one final unimpressed look-over, Mr. LargeAngryMan leads him inside. Jaskier feels a swell of foreboding when he sees that they’re headed for the basement, but he swallows it down as they start to descend. He’s got powers. He’s got them, and more importantly, _they don’t know_ that he’s got them. Could his less than stellar control possibly bring the entire building down on them? Maybe. But Jaskier’s been having some decent luck practicing his sonic forcefields of late, and also he’s broke as absolute fuck. 

But neither of those things matter. He knows he’s fucked the second they enter the room. 

He’d been told to expect two men, his client and his client’s head of security; the room contains no less than ten. Jaskier wouldn’t exactly consider himself a tactical genius, but even he knows that’s a little bit fucking overkill for what should have been a simple information-gathering assignment. 

“Haaaave we decided to throw a party? I’d be happy to provide the music, if that’s the case.” Oh, christ, he’s an idiot. _Why_ can’t he keep his fucking mouth _shut_ , it’s like he _wants_ to be murdered. 

So Jaskier is a little surprised when, instead of reacting in anger, one of the men actually _laughs_. He’s an older gentleman, shorter than Jaskier and twice as wide. Thinning brown hair and disarmingly kind eyes strike a chord of familiarity that sends dread coiling in Jaskier’s gut. He knows him. He doesn’t remember how, but he knows him. 

“ _You_ haven’t changed a bit.” The man smiles winningly, eyes crinkling as he unexpectedly pulls Jaskier in for a tight hug. He actually reaches up to ruffle his hair, laughing. “Never thought you’d ever grow this tall, though. Such a scrawny thing, you were.” 

Jaskier’s left blinking and at a loss for words as he’s given one final squeeze before the man releases him and steps back. “I’m sorry, I don’t…” 

“No, lad, of course you wouldn’t. You were either drugged out of your wee mind or ill, most times you saw me.” He reaches to pat Jaskier consolingly on the arm, and doesn’t seem particularly affected when Jaskier steps out of his reach. “Name’s McCullough. I’m a friend of your father’s." 

And, oh, _fuck_ , Jaskier remembers. That same face, ten years younger and grim. Taking his notes, collecting his samples. Refusing to administer painkillers as it would muddle their results. Jaskier remembers crying, begging his father to make the man stop. He never stopped. 

He has every intention of running the _fuck_ away, of bringing the whole place down, _anything_ , but he just… doesn’t. Fear holds him immobile, washes over him like a cold wave of dread. His body decides very suddenly that it’s no longer able to support itself, but he locks his knees and wills himself standing even as his breath grows short. He’s fucking _horrified_ to feel his eyes beginning to sting with tears, but he can’t stop himself. He can’t do this. He can’t do this, he can’t do this- 

“Ah.” McCullough smiles, and it’s clinical now. No need for the facade. “Good. He remembers.” 

He waves one his one of his men forward, and Jaskier takes the file he presents with numb fingers. He can’t stop staring at the doctor. He can’t move. He’s not a thousand percent sure this is actually happening. 

When he fails to open the folder, McCullough sighs and takes it from his hands. He slips an 8x10 photo from the stack of papers, shakes it pointedly until Jaskier blinks his eyes clear, finally tearing his gaze away long enough to take a look. 

It’s a picture of him and Geralt, the day he’d dragged the half conscious Witcher back to his apartment. The picture is startlingly clear and close, Geralt’s pain and Jaskier’s poorly disguised panic distressingly obvious. They’ve been being watched. 

“We need your help, Julian.” 

Jaskier drags his gaze back to McCullough, and if he wasn’t terrified before, he sure as fuck is now. “What do you want from me?” 

The man has the gall to look apologetic, and Jaskier can’t help the full body shiver that wracks through him when the doctor places a hand on his shoulder. “Nothing nefarious, don’t you worry your pretty head. All we need is for you to get him alone.” 


	5. Of Bastards and Bigots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier wishes this was the first time he’s woken to find himself in unfamiliar surroundings, but it very much is not.
> 
> Our boy finds himself in trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY Y'ALL I DON'T WANNA BRAG BUT I'VE HAD A HECKIN' DIFFICULT TIME WRITING LATELY.

Jaskier wishes this was the first time he’s woken to find himself in unfamiliar surroundings, but it very much is not. Fuck, it’s not even the first time he’s woken to find himself bound- though, to be fair, that had been a fully consensual and decidedly more fun experiance than the prediciment he finds himself in now. That is to say, a predicament he’s got _no fucking memory of_.

“Ohhhhh, what the fuck.” He struggles to open his eyes, and from the effort it’s taking he can only assume that at some point in the past several hours his eyelids have been replaced with malleable lead. His brain is a lukewarm soup, storebrand vegetable with the alphabet noodles, and his stupid goddamn thought-spoon can’t scoop the letters up with any semblance of coherence.

Jaskier blinks, attempts to focus his vision, and decides that he’s probably underwater. He’s got no memory of evolving gills, but as he finds he’s still perfectly able to breathe, he comes to the conclusion that it’s probably not all that important. Any object he tries to discern is _fuzzyblurrypossiblynonexistent_ , and every time he turns his head, he finds that his brain is trailing just a millisecond behind in his skull. Sloshy.

“The fuck?” It takes an _unbelievable_ amount of effort to tug against the restraints on his wrists and ankles, and the only thing the action earns him at all is a strangely warm, stinging echo of pain snaking up his right forearm. He tries to lift his head in order to see _what the fuck is biting him_ , and settles for lolling it to the side when the effort becomes too herculean.

“ _Drugs_?” He stares at the malicious tube feeding into his arm, outraged and incredulous. “ _Illegal drugs_?”

“Jesus Christ. Pankratz, look at me.” Rough fingers turn his head before Jaskier can even attempt to track the voice, and he has to close his eyes in an effort to stave off the whirling nausea the movement causes. When the worst of it passes, he finds himself blinking up at a ghost.

The ghost- or wait, he’s sorry, probably _spirit_ is the more politically correct term here- sighs. “We definitely gave him too much.”

“It’s not _my_ fuckin’ fault!” Another voice objects, and Jesus, he’s probably going to have to call the ghostbusters at this point, and he doesn’t even have their _number_. “Fuckin’- McCullough shouldn’t have left us alone.”

Jaskier groans, suddenly miserable, because, “‘s an absolute motherfucker.”

He doesn’t want to think about McCullough right now, not when he’s already got so much to deal with, but at least one of the ghosts laughs, and Jaskier spares a moment to be grateful he’s got more of a Casper situation happening here and less of an Ed and Lorraine Warren one. Because listen, listen, he’s all about horror movies, but he’s also all about watching cartoons after, and he’s pretty sure there’s no Bob of Bob’s Burgers fame here.

“Alright, let’s get this over with before we lose him again.” And okay, alright, he’s got some questions about what _that_ means, but he accidentally loses interest in the answer the second he feels something grabbing at his hand. He watches, enthralled, as somebody _moves his finger_ , pressing it to a screen, and hey, that’s his phone.

“Pankratz, I don’t have time to ask you about your fucking homescreen right now, but I gotta tell ya, I’m really starting to hope we don’t have to kill you.”

“You’re lovely, darling, thank you.” He doesn’t particularly want to be killed, so he’s glad they agree. It feels like a natural enough conclusion to their conversation and he shuts his eyes accordingly, chasing the pull of sleep, and immediately groans when he feels a light slapping at his cheek.

“Nuh-uh, look alive, pretty boy.” Slowly, Jaskier focuses on the waving rectangle in front of his face, transfixed as the blur solidifies into a familiar screen. “Do you have the goddamn Butcher of Blaviken listed in your phone as ‘Ger bear’?”

Jaskier grins, chest blooming warm. “Awww, Ger bear!” He wishes Geralt were here with him now. He _misses_ him, misses his dumb frowny face and his pretty honey eyes and his really very good and important jeans. He likes the way that Geralt makes his brain calm down when everything is always too much and too loud, likes the way he makes Jaskier feel safe when he never really feels that way otherwise. He just likes Geralt, _period_ , so he’s delighted when he suddenly hears The Witcher’s rumbly voice.

But, _oh_ , does he sound mad.

“‘S he mad at me?” Jaskier frowns, attempting to track the conversation, but it’s moving too rapidly for him to follow. His stomach sinks at the thought of being the object of Geralt’s ire, and he can’t help the tears that begin to sting at the corners of his eyes. Jaskier knows he’s annoying, knows he tends to make people angry, but he never wanted one of those people to be Geralt. He’s not sure he can handle it if he ends up driving Geralt away, too.

“I’m- can you say I’m sorry?” He beseeches the maybe-spirit holding his phone, feeling miserable and awful and ill. “Can you say I’m sorry?”

The figure, and now that Jaskier is trying to concentrate, _probably_ an actual living person, shrugs, nonplussed. He twirls the phone around for Jaskier to see. “Tell him yourself. Maybe it’ll help convince the big guy to jog his ass on over. That is, if he gives a shit.”

“ _Jaskier_.” It takes a second for Geralt’s fuzzy face on the screen to make any sense, but when it does, he’s angrier than Jaskier’s ever seen him.

It makes his stomach roil and swoop, makes a wave of nausea roll through him, and before he can help it he’s gagging and retching, caught in an awful cycle when he feels the damp warmth of it soak into the shoulder of his shirt. It’s disgusting, it’s so fucking gross, and he can’t move far enough away because there’s something pinning him in place.

“ _Fuck_ , Geralt, I’mmm think I’m sick.” He squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head to the side, does his best not to sound too desperate. He thinks now that maybe he’s back in the hospital again, and Jaskier knows, he _knows_ how much the doctor hates it when he complains. He’s not ready to face that kind of pain, not right now, so he forces himself to shut up and stay quiet the best that he can.

The arguing on the phone gets louder, angrier, Geralt’s voice growing clipped and terse, and Jaskier just wants him there. He’s sick and he’s lonely and he’s surrounded by strangers, and he just wants Geralt to come get him.

“Hey.” A deeper voice, a slap so sharp it leaves Jaskier’s ears ringing and his jaw aching, and his eyes fly open in shock. He can hear Geralt spitting vicious curses in the background, but he can’t take his eyes off the blurring form of his apparent assailant. His vision fucking _whirls_ as his head is jerked roughly backward, and he’s caught somewhere in between passing out and throwing up right up until he feels cold metal biting into his neck.

His body makes the decision for him. Jaskier has just enough time to hear Geralt’s strained voice saying his name, and then it all goes soft and quiet and dark.

~

The entire ride to the lab, Geralt contemplates the morality of murdering a few dozen humans in one fell swoop. It’s something he tries to avoid as a general rule, both for the sake of The Witcher’s public image and his own admittedly tenuous grasp on appropriate retribution, but the motherfuckers are testing him.

He stares, unblinking, at the weasley man holding a gun to his face until the bastard flushes and looks away, hand trembling. It would be _incredibly_ satisfying to punch him right in the jaw, to take out the entire unimpressive crew sent to escort him, but Geralt can’t risk a wrong move until he’s got Jaskier safe.

Despite the consensus of a select few, Geralt is not an idiot. The fact that McCullough’s group truly believed they could pull off such a stunt in order to perform a few ‘harmless’ experiments- the fact that they would _endanger Jaskier’s life_ to do so, pisses him _right_ the fuck off. But it also gives him that much more drive to see this through right. He’s got a stupid fucking tracking chip in his arm that he _knows_ Lambert is going to be be smug about coming in handy, and an emergency beacon he’d activated on his phone right before the fuckers had smashed it. Backup is coming.

All Geralt has to do, and really, it’s the only thing he actually cares about in this entire shitshow, is find Jaskier and get him the _fuck_ away from McCullough and his men.

His heart gives an uncomfortable tug when he thinks about Jaskier as he’d seen him only minutes ago: sick and disoriented and drugged out of his goddamn mind. He’d looked so fucking helpless, consumed and dwarfed by the hospital bed and a worrying jumble of tubes and wires. And then the fucker guarding him, the hulking asshole charged with the oh so difficult task of restraining a smaller, half-comatose man temporarily robbed of his abilities, had _dared_ to put his hands on Jaskier.

That awful look of dazed shock and pain on Jaskier’s face after he’d been struck is seared into Geralt’s memory. The way he’d slipped into unconsciousness and the fucker had _continued to hold a knife_ to the kid’s throat, hand tangled roughly in hair.

And okay, alright. Maybe Geralt feels morally at peace with the idea of murdering _one_ human.

~

The smartest thing they do is keeping him from seeing Jaskier straightaway.

McCullough barely looks up from his laptop as Geralt sinks heavily into his seat, doesn’t pause in his typing even as he asks “I trust it’s not necessary to restrain you, Witcher? You understand the stakes?”

The stakes. Like the fucker hasn’t known Jaskier since he was an infant, like he hadn’t been charged with his- however misplaced- care throughout his childhood. Geralt looks at him, _truly_ looks at him, and sees the self-assured confidence of a man who honestly believes he’s doing right. A man who believes he’s bettering mankind in his fight to eradicate a plague.

Geralt holds his breath for one moment, two. Snarls, “What do you want?”

“I should think I made that rather clear.” The doctor finally looks up, sliding his glasses further up his nose with one pudgy digit. He smiles, looking every bit the part of The World's Kindest Pediatrician. “I need your help, Geralt. Your- your _assistance_ in enacting some real change. I believe that you and your family can help us with that, what with the particular nature of your… mutations.”

Geralt feels his hackles rise at the mention of his brothers, the vague implication that they might be dragged into this shit as well. The fucking balls on this guy, the sheer _nerve._

  
Still, Geralt reins it in. “You mean you want to disect me like a fucking lab rat.” He’s had worse wished upon him.

“ _Study you_ , yes.” McCullough laughs, and it makes his skin crawl. “Nothing so malicious as dissection. All I need is samples, Geralt, a base collection of data. Maybe an MRI, your run of the mill physical, and then you’ll be happily on your way. A small price to pay for the cure, I would think.”

“And Jaskier?” He’s got no intention of cooperating any further than he has to, but Geralt needs to understand what’s fully at stake here.

“Ah.” McCullough sighs. “That’s a bit more complicated, I’m afraid.”

“Is it.” If Geralt’s tone were any flatter it’d be a goddamn business card embossed with the words _go fuck yourself_.

“Given the history between us, I think you’ve got a pretty good understanding of my relationship with Julian’s father?” McCullough waits for Geralt’s confirmation, and continues airily when The Witcher only stares. “I owe it to him, you see. To see the boy cured. To get him back in working order, the way he’s meant to be. He deserves the opportunity to be normal, Geralt. You all do.”

“I saw the video.” Geralt flexes his fist, jaw clenching. “You’ve got him back on the suppressants.”

“You noticed! Helluva more powerful formula, these days, real potent stuff. But it’s not a _cure._ ”

Geralt lets his head tilt to one side, considering. He's never understood people like this, and he's glad for it. “So where does it stop?”

At McCullough's questioning blink, he elaborates. “How do you determine when a person is _normal enough_? Jaskier’s hair is dark; you want to fuck around with those genetics, too? Pretty sure his mother’s family is Jewish, I’d imagine you’d have a problem with that as well.”

“Now hang on just a minute, that’s not fair. You may have been _created_ , Witcher, but most mutants are born. They never had a choice, no more than any child born with a deformity has a choice. I’m only trying to help.” Geralt can smell McCullough’s simmering anger, pick up the too-rapid beat of his agitated heart. He’s never met a bigot who could handle it when their fear and hatred is laid out in simple terms, and McCullough is no exception.

“Sure.” Geralt nods, shrugs. He watches the doctor’s agitation grow as the wind goes out of his sails, robbed as he is of the opportunity to further explain himself. If there’s anything else Geralt’s learned about bigots, it’s that they lose their minds when deprived of a stage on which to preach.

McCullough takes a moment just to stare, all carefully controlled breath and nostrils flaring. Without breaking his gaze he makes a barely-there signal with one hand, prompting the entrance of security. “Boys, why don’t you see our guest to his quarters? We’ve got a busy day ahead of us.”

Geralt’s sure that they do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoo boy, you guys, i done been THROUGH IT.


End file.
